At first glance, this run-down efficiency seems barely lived in. The door opens onto a nearly empty living room, painted institutional white and containing only a lime-green couch with fuzzy yellow pillows and an oak coffee table. It is reasonably spacious, and is obviously intended to be the main room of the flat. The current light fixture is a hanging industrial fluorescent, which gives the room a slightly unhealthy, antiseptic feeling, unmitigated by the ancient blinds covering the windows. The left wall from the door shows signs of a mural in progress, though the faint pencil lines leave the intended design still unclear.
To the right upon entering is a small kitchenette, with barely enough space to stand between the stove and refrigerator on one side and the sink on the other. A boom-box style radio relaxes on the counter, broadcasting soothing celtic music. Just above the sink is what little cabinet space can be had. There is a small dining table and chairs right outside the kitchenette, defining an eating space.
Just past the kitchenette, still on the right, is the bathroom, then both bedrooms. Between them is a small coat closet, empty except for a surely breeding collection of wire hangers. The door to the closet is perpetually ajar, as it doesn't seem to want to latch properly.
It's probably about 9am, now. The sun is well into the sky, coming though the cracks in the blinds. The door's locks flick back without the sound of a key being fitted to them, and it creaks open. Bernie drags herself in, tired and dirty, a small selection of Wal-Mart bags dangling rather limply from one hand as she closes the door again by slumping back against it, eyes closing.
Matt cracks an eye, in no real hurry to get out of bed. "Cor," he groans. Whot's th' birdlime?"
Bernie lets the bags drop to the floor, and pushes back to standing. She wanders to the bedroom, shedding backpack and jacket on the way, and flops onto the bed beside him. She hasn't taken off her boots, but they hang over the edge of the bed -- a good thing, since they're seriously caked with mud. It at least seems to be fairly dry, now. "Nine," she replies, muffled by the pillow, "...around."
Matt's eyes are bloodshot. "Bollocks." He sits up, letting the covers slide down to his waist. Blearily he takes in her clothes and muddy boots. "'aven't ye gotten any bo peep?"
Bernie shakes her head against the pillow, and sighs. "...I killed a vampire," she mentions, still barely intelligible. Even so, she doesn't sound particularly triumphant or proud of it.
Matt is awake as though he's had cold water dumped on his head. "What? Really? Are ye all right?" He extends his arms out, enfolding her.
Bernie leans in closer, turning her head to face him, and speak more clearly. Her eyes are a bit red. "Really. He got a decent kick in, but that's all..." She looks downward a moment, and slides right in against him. "Kaz helped me get rid of his body," she adds, miserably. "And the one he had rotting in the car." She winces a little. "And she says they're all Wyrmy, and so it was the right thing to do, and probably he would've killed other people. 'cause he said he tried to just eat rats and squirrels, only he couldn't, so..." The words fall over each other a bit, and she stops again. "...he begged me not to kill him," she whispers, "...he cried."
Matt closes his eyes sympathetically. "Ow." He hugs her tighter, stroking her hair. "Sure an 'e would've, ah...starved, eating rats, right?"
Bernie nods a little, weakly. "'s why he ate the guy, he said. He said he didn't want to, and tried not to. Only, he did." Her arm finds its way around the Fianna, as well. "And... I mean, he wasn't happy, and I know... I'm pretty sure it was the right thing to do... but..." She sighs again, and rests her forehead on his shoulder. "'s easier when they're weird tentacle creatures who jus' wanna kill you."
Matt kisses her head, and hold her for a while. "Ssh. Oi guess it would be. Easier ta 'ate a slavering bug monster, than a bad guy whot looks joost loike ye. Knew a bloke in school from Ireland. 'E was a bit daffy when ye asked 'im about the Troubles, y'know? People joost like 'im, only tryin' ta kill 'im, 'cause 'e's not quite like 'em."
Another little nodding-movement, at that. "...only. I mean... that isn't quite the same? 'cause... then it'd mean being Wyrmy or not's like being Catholic or Protestant, which's... barely different. I mean, I'm Jewish, that's more diff'rent from both than they are from each other..." She trails off, with a hint of a laugh. "Maybe I'm too tired to be tryin' t' be logical. I dunno. It just... 's not supposta be like that."
Matt leans away, so she can see his face. "Y'doan't fink it's evil ta make someone want ta drink someone else's claret, until they're brown bread? Oi fink that's a lesson, Books. Th' Wyrm is /sneaky/ evil, too." He kisses her gently. "Ye did th' right fing, even if it doesn't seem that way."
"No, I do, 'specially when they don't wanna want to..." the Gnawer considers. "'s like... I know th' Wyrm is evil, an' I believe he was Wyrmy, but he wasn't evil. Prolly whatever made him be a vampire is. I guess... 's like rabid dogs. They didn' wanna be rabid but they're still dangerous an' you hafta put 'em down. I s'pose." The analogy seems to make her feel slightly better, at least, and she leans up to return the gentle kiss.
Matt nods, firmly. "Aye. Like that. Joost like that. I wish Oi knew 'ow ta fix 'em, but if ye can't, ye gotta think about all those they might make...sick."
Bernie nods slowly in agreement, and squeezes him. "Thank you," she murmurs, planting another light kiss on the side of his neck, and falling into quiet cuddling.